


inscription

by wariangle



Category: Strange Empire (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 03:24:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3159413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wariangle/pseuds/wariangle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I like watching you work," she says earnestly, just as he fills in the curving line of the aorta. It seems as if he almost starts, catching himself at the last second to finish the line evenly. "I like your hands."</p><p>"I, uh, thanks," he mutters, his cheeks flushing as he avoids her eyes, bending further over the tattoo.</p><p>-</p><p>Rebecca gets a tattoo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	inscription

The door makes a faint creaking sound as it's pushed open and three men look up as Rebecca steps inside the tattoo parlor. One of them smirks and the other shakes his head in an amused sort of way, while the third simply hurries out from behind the counter and says, "Are you Rebecca... uh, Miss Blithely?" He reaches out his hand.

Rebecca nods and shakes it.

The parlor is somewhat run-down, but seems sufficiently clean, she notes as she looks around. During her e-mail exchange with her tattooist, Morgan Finn, she asked about their needles, the ink, and sterilization techniques for equipment, and the workplace. It had taken extensive correspondence, but in the end she'd been satisfied that the health requirements would be met.

As a doctor, this is the last place she should find herself. There are no health benefits to have someone cut open one's skin with a needle and fill the wound with ink for decorative purposes - quite the opposite. But she, better than most, knows the tantalizing, power that lies in the control and perfection of the human form. Bodies are for living.

Even so, there is no need to throw caution to the wind. "Are you healthy?" she asks Morgan, her eyes returning to him. "If you have a virus in your body, it would be highly irresponsible of me to let you cut open my skin."

She hears the sound of a muffled laugh behind her, but chooses to ignore it.

"I'm good, miss," Morgan says, answering her question easily and earnestly. "Shall we?" He gestures towards on of the tattoo stations and Rebecca gladly follows him.

She is asked to sit down in the chair while he rummages around with his supplies with Rebecca aptly watching.

Morgan Finn is slight of build, only one or perhaps two inches taller than she is, and the heavily tattooed arms, revealed by bunched-up sweater sleeves, are slim but wiry. His hair is kept out of his face with a red bandana and on one hand, his knuckles reads _FINN_. She thinks about her tattoo, and what it represents, and wonders curiously why the part of his identity he chose to showcase on his hand is his name.

"There you go," he says, holding up the stencil of her tattoo. "That seems right?"

"Yes," she says after a quick survey of the image. She's getting a anatomically correct medical illustration of a heart tattooed on her forearm, right below the bend of her elbow. The stencil looks like the exact replica of the image she sent him - except for the names designating the veins and arteries, which she asked him to leave out.

"All right, then."

She takes of her jacket and catches the way his eyes drift to her throat, her cleavage, her bare arms for a second, before cutting away, almost skittishly. She leans back in the chair and puts her arm on the cling wrap-covered stand next to it, shifting to get comfortable.

Morgan swabs her arm with antiseptic and applies the stencil, smoothes it out across her skin with firm fingertips to make sure it sticks before pulling it away with slow, careful movements.

He is sure and methodical in the way he approaches his work, and Rebecca appreciates that. In just a few minutes, he has the needle attached and the machine buzzing, and Rebecca wonders if he feels the same way she does before an operation - focused on the task at hand and determined to do her absolute best, unwilling to even think on the consequences of an eventual failure.

"Okay, miss," Morgan says, smearing a glob of vaseline across the purple-blue stencil. It is already slightly smeared; Rebecca hopes that that will not affect the outcome of the tattoo. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," she says.

"This will sting a little," he says and then puts the needle against her skin, moving it smoothly in a short stroke along one of the outer lines of the heart illustration. The pain is slight, but sharp and hot. In a bit, her skin will grow flush and irritated and the pain will increase along with the soreness.

"So, why are you getting a heart, Re... uh, miss Blithely?" Morgan says, glancing away from where he is bent over her arm for a second and up at her.

"Please call be Rebecca," she says. She is quite sure that he has never before referred to any of his clients as "Miss" before. "I am a recently graduated heart surgeon," she says. "I wanted to commemorate the event."

"A surgeon, really?" Morgan moves away from her arm to dip the needle into the ink. "You seem a bit young for that to me."

"I am a..." _Freak_ , a part of her mind, a shadow from her younger years she will never shake, supplies. "I'm... gifted, they say."

Morgan shakes his head. "Don't think it's possibly to become a finished surgeon at your age without a lot of talent and hard work, Rebecca," he says.

She smiles, surprised and pleased. There is something about the way he says her name that she enjoys, even though it sounds the same as it would from any other person's mouth. The pain in her arm seems a distant thing. "Thank you kindly, but that is an assessment you cannot possibly make without knowing my age," she says.

"You can't be a day older than twenty five, and that's a fact," he says, glancing shyly up at her again.

"Twenty two," she says and he grins, as if his correct guess is some sort of victory.

He works in silence for a while, quickly turning the weak, purplish lines of the stencil into bold, permanent black. There are a few drops of blood in among the dark ink, but it disappears easily when he wipes the tattoo clean every few minutes. The ink does not - the heavy pigment smears and lingers on her arm, catching in the pores and irregularities in her skin.

"I like watching you work," she says earnestly, just as he fills in the curving line of the aorta. It seems as if he almost starts, catching himself at the last second to finish the line evenly. "I like your hands."

"I, uh, thanks," he mutters, his cheeks flushing as he avoids her eyes, bending further over the tattoo.

Beneath the black, her skin has gone pink, but her body is releasing endorphins to counter the pain and it is easy to handle the sting of it. She doubts she would sit as easily for a longer period of time, though. She studies at Morgan's forearms and hands - several of the tattoos there look like they took a lot longer to do than the hour and a half he said her would be.

"Did you get a fever afterward?" she asks, curious. "Dizziness?"

He follows her gaze to his arms. "No," he says, "but some do."

"You've had no symptoms?"

He shrugs as he wipes her tattoo clean anew. "After I've sat for more than three hours, I'm pretty beat afterward, but other than that, no, not really. A headache, once or twice."

She nods. "From tension. But some people do have negative reactions?" she asks.

"Yeah, I've had a few faint on me," he says. "But I'm sure you'll be fine."

"Pain tolerance can be elevated by healthy eating, proper sleep, and exercising," Rebecca says.

"Good to know," Morgan says, as if it really is. "Although, most people don't care about the pain or the trouble - they just need their regular dose of ink, you know." He grins again and motions to himself with his chin. "Addicts, the lot of us."

Rebecca truly doubt that the release of endorphins is enough to create a physiological habit, but says nothing. Perhaps it is more of a psychological reaction.

Some of her thoughts must be visible on her face, though, because Morgan laughs and says, "Don't you doubt me, Rebecca. Before you know it you'll be back here, asking for a whole sleeve."

A "sleeve", Rebecca knows from her extensive studies, refers to a coherent tattoo design that covers the whole arm, from shoulder to wrist. She has some difficulty picturing herself with one, but on the other hand she'd never thought she would getting so much as a small one either.

"I'm not so sure about the sleeve," she says and Morgan gives a quiet laugh.

He is making fast progress - most of the lines are filled in, but she knows that he will be going over them again to colour them in properly.

"You're doing good," Morgan says after a while of quiet.

"Good," Rebecca says. "That must make your job easier. Surgery is ideal since the patient is anesthetized and unable to make my work unnecessary difficult."

Morgan laughs again and while Rebecca did not make a joke, she does not mind. He sounds genuinely amused.

Approximately thirty minutes later, Morgan says, "Just a few minutes longer and you're done."

Rebecca counts seven before he finally puts the needle down and shuts the machine off. He wipes her tattoo clean one last time and lets her study the finished image for a little while before rubbing vaseline gently over it and covering it with a piece of plastic, taping it securely to her arm.

She is very pleased with the result - it looks exactly like it's supposed to.

As she rises from the chair she belatedly realizes that she is somewhat shaky and almost stumbles, but Morgan steadies her easily, stepping back quickly as she regains her balance. He smells mostly of antiseptic, but beneath it is the scent of cologne and shampoo. It's nice.

"Well," Morgan says as they step back out into the front room, him behind the counter and she in front of it. "That's 130 dollars."

She hands over two crisp bills - they had already discussed the payment over e-mail.

"Thank you very much," she says as he hands her a list of care instructions in return. She doubts it will say something that she does not already know, but accepts it anyway.

"Come back here in about three to four weeks when it's healed so I can see if anything needs filling in," he says. "If so, that's on the house, of course."

"Sure," she says. "I will see you in four weeks then, Morgan. Goodbye." She smiles.

"Goodbye, Rebecca," Morgan says and as he returns her smile, Rebecca experiences a curious sensation in the pit of her stomach, almost like a small but sharp spark of electricity.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://wariangle.tumblr.com/)!


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